I Can Have Feelings Too
by cityscapes101
Summary: Adrian's POV on the events in the beginning of Spirit Bound. The content gets worse after Chapter 1 so rated M just to be sure.


**A/N: So I just began reading Spirit Bound, reluctantly, I admit. I did NOT enjoy the previous book, but I was hoping that this one would be better. **

**So I was reading it, and I was talking to one of my closest friends (you know who you are) about it. We both were fascinated with Adrian's character, and we were both wondering why he didn't just crumble from all the things that he was putting himself through. He quit smoking, didn't drink as much, and now Rose is off on an adventure without him. I'd be pretty hurt. **

**Another part is about Christian, the second character that Richelle crafted that I love. He's not like the other characters-and I really loved his relationship with Lissa. So I wanted to write about that.**

**This takes place right after Lissa, Eddie, and Rose leave for Alaska.**

**I have NOT finished the book, so a lot of the problems I am addressing may be resolved in the book. And if you review (which I hope you do) don't spoil anything for me. **

**Oh, and as far as I know, this story rating will stay at K+. And even if it did go up, it wouldn't go past a T.**

**Enjoy!  
**

Sometimes, clichés are the only phrases you can use to get a point across. And the cliché that ran through my mind at the very moment as I was walking back to my room after the party, after Rose kissed me goodbye and it pained me too just to watch her leave me, was this:

_Nothing, not one thing could be any worse than the feeling that is torturing me at the very instant._

And as the cliché usually ends up, this was absolutely wrong.

My mind was cluttered, probably beyond cleansing. In its crevices were cobwebs and lacerations, grime and blood and exhaustion and anger and resentment and sadness. And even loneliness, as hard as that may be to imagine, with my egotistical exterior.

I don't _mean _to be a narcissist. Or maybe I do. All I know is that it just slips out, the words trail out of my mouth like a raging river and I have never been able to build a dam to stop it. With some people I think it just makes me even more of a hero, or an icon, because I think hero is the wrong word. Maybe this is why Rose is such an oddity to me—because she actually has the sense to know that my egotistical demeanor isn't all there is to me—and that that demeanor isn't good for me, or anyone.

I had this big mess on my hands, and it took me this long to realize that it was my entire fault. I was starting to get the feeling that I was destroying myself for Rose. Was she worth that?

I knew she was. It was pertinent to continue to remember that, even as much as my spirit tried to dissuade me.

The thought of my spirit greatly troubled me, and as much as I didn't admit it, as much as I tried to turn a blind eye to myself, I knew that this couldn't last too much longer. Everything that I am—or was: the cigarettes, the drinking, the delinquent behavior. It was enough to keep it all away; it was enough to keep my head from flying away. My fingers itched to hold another smoke. I shook from the withdrawal. I was sure that the only thing that was keeping me from reaching the edge of my hypothetical cliff and taking a dive off was Rose. Rose, the one pushing me towards the cliff, was the one saving me from it. If that made any sense to you.

So you could imagine the feelings that were running through my brain as I entered my room that day, and the sadness I felt when my eyes hit the small, delicately folded letter than laid in the center of my luxuriously adorned bed (I'm the queen's great-nephew—what else would you expect?)

Okay, I may not be the _smartest _Moroi out there. Any average idiot would have the common sense to realize that. But I am by no means stupid, so I was pretty sure what the letter said before I even touched it. In normal Rose fashion, she had to be melodramatic, and leave an even more melodramatic note…signaling her leaving me once again.

The sad part about it was that I wasn't surprised. I cared so much for her, and I should have expected the best from her. But the problem was that I had known Rose—you always expect the worst when it came to her actions.

I did eventually read the letter, and I don't really want to read it to you. I didn't cry, but you could imagine that I was pretty upset. She was an absolutely atrocious liar—it was extremely obvious that it wasn't a _"girl weekend". _Rose didn't do that while she was at the Royal Court during one of the most important time of her young adult life. No, Rose appreciated her situation a lot more than to just blow it off for a _"girl weekend." _I wondered in my head if she really thought I was that stupid.

I wanted her. I was sure that I was falling for the dramatic, bold, daring girl with such a fragile nickname that totally contradicted her persona. I could remember every corner of her, and not just the parts that made me want to scream. The good parts. The ones you want to remember. Not just her body, but the personality of fire that is too hot to touch but too fascinating to simply leave be.

I don't remember doing this but I found myself on the floor of the room, my back against the bed, just breathing. I found that task to be challenging, even. I craved that cigarette, and just one more champagne. I just wanted to pressure to be lifted. I just wanted the darkness to leave me be.

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